


Anniversaries

by helsinkibaby



Series: Novembers Past [5]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Minor Character Backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-25
Updated: 2002-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-13 10:57:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginger looks back on her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversaries

The morning sun shining in the window is far too bright, or maybe it's just that I've had too little sleep. Whatever the reason, my eyes are no sooner open than I screw them shut again, a groan of disgust that the morning has come escaping from my lips. The only thing I want to do right now is roll over in bed and forget that daylight has come; forget that I have to go in to work; forget that I have to leave this house, this room, this bed.

From beside me, there's a low, mirthful chuckle, but I don't open my eyes, not even when he presses himself against me, his arms sliding around my waist, his lips tracing a path down my neck.

"Go 'way," I manage to mumble, although there's not as much conviction as there could be in my words. "Want to sleep."

"That's no fun," he murmurs, and he doesn't stop what he's doing, and I feel a giggle rise up in my throat as the last vestiges of sleep are chased away.

"Well if you insist…" I sigh theatrically, turning so that I'm facing him and wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing my lips to his. He responds enthusiastically, and I'm not sure how long we stay that way, but I know that things are just starting to get interesting when there's a loud squall from the other room. We break away, looking at one another with identical amused smiles on our faces.

"Should've known," he says, kissing me on the forehead before moving himself away from me, and all I can do is nod. After all, this isn't the first time that this has happened to us. I watch him as he pads across the room in his bare feet, pulling on a T-shirt to go along with the boxers he wore in bed last night. When he goes of the door, I pull myself up to a sitting position, knowing that he won't be gone long.

Nor is he.

When he comes back into the room again, I can't help but smile. He's holding a squirming bundle in his arms; said bundle's cries having been reduced to soft whimpers thanks to his father's arms around him. Even from here, I can see the resemblance between them, most obvious in the shock of dark hair on our son's head. And I know that when I hold him, I'll look down into his eyes and see his father's eyes.

He crosses the room and hands the baby to me. At two months old, he's already old enough to know what this means, and his little mouth is opening and closing even before my night-gown is open. When my fingers fumble on the buttons, he makes a little squawking noise, threatening to break into full-blown cries again, and that gives me the impetus to make short work of the buttons. His mouth clamps onto my nipple with all the force of a hungry baby, and while once this would have made me wince, I'm used to it now.

The bed shifts beside us, and his father climbs back in, positioning himself so that his arms go around my waist, and he can look down at the baby. I look up at him and we share a smile before our attention is diverted by the door of our bedroom opening slowly, and we look to see a three-year-old girl there, one arm around her favourite teddy bear, the other hand with its thumb stuck in her mouth. She looks at the three of us on the bed, and starts to make her way over.

"Baby woke me," she announces, and I feel as well as hear her father's laugh, as he smiles down at his daughter, helping her to clamber up onto the bed.

"Well, what do you think sweetie?" he asks her, ruffling her hair. "Should we send him back?"

She shakes her head as she nestles herself against him and we both laugh, watching as her eyes close. She's back to sleep in no time, and he wraps one arm around her, keeping the other one around me.

My eyes are drawn back to our son as he feeds, and the next thing I feel is a light kiss to my temple. "This is the life Gin," he tells me, and I can't help but agree.

This is exactly the kind of life that I always wanted. The sun streaming in a bedroom window, lying in bed with the man I love, our children around us. And two more beautiful children I've never seen, even if I am hopelessly biased. We both got exactly what we wanted. Him three years ago, when our little girl was born, all red hair and freckles like her mom. And me two months ago, when we had our little boy, dark hair and blue eyes just like his dad. We have the perfect little family, and I couldn't be happier.

And then I realise what date it is, and I turn my face up to the man I love, raising my lips to him for a kiss. "Happy anniversary," I whisper.

That's when the alarm clock goes off.

I open my eyes slowly, the bright light streaming through the curtains. Behind me, the alarm continues blaring, and I sigh as I turn, reaching over to slap it off. Once that's done and the room is mercifully silent, my hands falls, running down the other side of the bed, the side that's flat, unrumpled. And a pang of loneliness rises in me as I think of the man who isn't there anymore; hasn't been there for two years now.

I'm being silly, I know. After all, he's never even seen this apartment, never slept in this bed. I bought everything new when I moved to Washington. And this wasn't even the room that was in the dream I've just woken up from. That was our old house, the house that we lived in in Jersey, back in my old life. And the dream I've just had was the dream that we shared so many times on so many nights.

Nights that came to an end two years ago, exactly two years ago, on a cold Jersey street.

Even now, I can't believe that it's been two years. Two years since I saw him, two years since I held him, two years since everything was normal.

The first few months after the accident are a blur. A blur of pain and hurt and longing, of the funeral, the long days where I'd sit staring into space, when my family and friends would try to coax me out of myself. Days when I knew that I was dying slowly by inches, and wasn't sure that I cared all that much. Days when I cared all too much.

And then came the fateful night that I couldn't sleep and began to watch a political program on CNN.

A week later, I was in Manchester.

I thought then that I was starting my new life, but I realise now that I was only kidding myself. I was out of the house, sure, and away from everyone I knew, but I was going through the motions.

Until Election Night.

I wasn't sure how I'd feel come Election Day. It was a double anniversary for me after all. Not only was it my fourth wedding anniversary, but it was also the first anniversary of Alan's death. I dreaded it for weeks beforehand, but on the day, we were so busy, running back and forth, that I couldn't spend too much time feeling sorry for myself. And when the election was called in our favour, I whooped and screamed and danced along with everyone else.

I didn't cry until I called my mom, and she told me that she was happy for me and that she was proud of me. I made my escape to the garden, hoping that I'd find the time to pull myself together, only to be interrupted, much to my embarrassment, by Toby Ziegler, a man who terrified half the campaign staff, me included.

It was a surprise that he asked me if I was all right, even tried to find out who'd upset me. And an even bigger surprise that I began to tell him about Alan, about what had happened, and when. And he was so nice, so concerned, although not too concerned. And strange as it sounds, I was grateful for that, because I think if he'd been overtly sympathetic, if one of the other girls had found me, I would have fallen apart totally. Instead of trying to comfort me and spouting meaningless platitudes that I'd heard a thousand times, he listened to me, replied in his Toby way, and convinced me to go back inside.

Where I danced with the rest of them, partied with the rest of them, and watched CJ do "The Jackal."

I had a ball that night, and it was the first time in a year that I'd really felt alive. As if I was a part of things, rather than watching from miles away in some disembodied state. That was the real start of my new life.

One year ago.

And what a year it's been.

I was offered a job in Washington, which I gladly accepted. I've made new friends, and have a job that I love. I even got promoted fairly quickly, from being a communications aide to Toby's assistant. And I've discovered that Toby's not so scary, that he can, in fact, be incredibly sweet. I sold our house in Jersey and bought a small apartment near to work. I got through my second Christmas without Alan, and welcomed a new niece, and goddaughter into my family.

I've grown so much in the last year that I'm not even sure if I recognise myself anymore.

And I'm not so sure that that's a bad thing.

The life that I had in my dream was a good life. But it's not one that I can have any more. Even though I miss it more than I can say, it's gone, it's a part of my past. And my life now, while different, isn't all that bad. I'm even finding that I can be happy.

Sighing, I pull myself out of bed, going about my morning routine, listening to the morning news shows on the radio, hearing for what seems like the millionth time about President Bartlet's first year in office, talking about the things that we've accomplished, or not, as the case may be. They've been running stuff like this in newspapers and on TV and radio all week, so I guess I know where my hyperawareness of the anniversary came from. I console myself with the thought that it could have been worse. The dream could have been the one that blindsides me every now and then, where I relive that night in vivid detail; from the moment he gave me that necklace to the moment I saw the pearls bouncing all over the cold ground. It used to be a toss-up over which dream upset me more, the nightmare of reality or the nightmare of the life that could have been mine. But while the former still upsets me, on the rare occasions that it comes along, the latter has become more bittersweet than bitter over the past two years.

Awareness of the anniversary could also have been from the countless phone calls that I got from friends and family yesterday, wanting me to know that they were thinking of me, that they were there if I needed them, to make sure that I was doing ok. I know that whoever didn't call today will doubtless call tomorrow, but I think I'm pretty safe for today. I've been dropping hints that I'd like some space for the past few weeks, and whoever didn't pick up the hint has probably had it rammed home to them by my mother.

Before I leave to go to the office, I stop at the mantel, picking up the picture of Alan and me there. It was taken on our wedding day, and we're laughing and smiling in it. My mind flies back five years, to what I was doing at this time. I'd been too nervous to sleep, so I'd been pottering around the kitchen, and Mom heard me and came down, and told me all kinds of stories about us kids when we were young, and how happy she was for me, how she'd dreamed of her little girl marrying a man like Alan. Mom adored him; she always used to say that she'd love him for herself, never mind me. The first time she ever said it in his hearing, I almost died, but he just laughed and told her that he'd keep it in mind should the need ever arise.

I run my finger across his face, trying to remember how his skin felt to the touch, remembering just how his eyes would dance when he smiled, how his arms felt when they were around me. Tears come into my eyes and I put down the picture, walking out quickly without looking back. I don't want to get emotional today; not now anyway, or I'll never get through it.

By the time I reach the White House, I've regained my composure, although I continue to be grateful that it's Bonnie's week to open the bullpen. When I reach my desk, there's already a flurry of activity about the place, and Bonnie makes a beeline for me when I walk in the door. "Thank God you're here," she tells me. "Toby's going crazy."

"What about this time?" I hang up my coat and turn to her, wondering if I have enough time to go to the coffee machine before I find out what all this is about.

"The toast for the State Dinner. He says you were supposed to have the latest draft for him last night?"

"I did. I put it on his desk."

"Well, he can't find it."

I shake my head, knowing that coffee will just have to wait. "He's been hanging around Josh too long," I tell her, making my way to the lion's den.

I'm barely to the open door when he sees me and begins to bellow exactly what Bonnie just said to me. Sam's sitting on the couch and gives me a sympathetic smile, which I return briefly before walking over to Toby's desk, finding a pile of papers that wasn't there when I left last night. Lifting it, I find a blue file folder, which is very familiar to me, but I can't resist making a big show of flipping it open and handing it to him.

"I put it on your desk last night. You were on the phone though, I don't think you even saw me."

"Ah. Thank you." He takes the file from me, sitting down at his desk.

"Don't you think you owe her an apology Toby?" Sam's words have both of us looking at him, me in surprise, Toby in what looks like annoyance. "I mean, you accused her in the wrong of not doing her job properly, when she clearly did. I would think that that warrants an apology."

I can't wipe the grin off my face at this little piece of theatre, and wonder what in the world Sam is thinking, or what in the world Toby might have done to have Sam yanking his chain like this. The look on Toby's face is priceless, and he fingers his beard. "Probably," is all he says, and I know that that's all the apology I'm ever going to get.

Sam shakes his head in disgust before looking at me. "Hey Ginger," he says. "A gang of us are going out tonight, to celebrate our first year in office. You want to come?"

Toby replies before I can. "Why you want to go out and celebrate is beyond me. We have work to do and-"

Evidently Sam's heard this before, because he breaks in. "Because it's a year since we were elected, and we all survived it, even if we didn't think we would, and we're still here. That's why." He looks at me again, his tone softening. "It's not just Senior Staff. Donna and Cathy are going, Bonnie thinks she's coming along too, and if Margaret can get Leo to let her out of here at a half-decent hour, she's in too. You should come."

I consider the invitation and find myself smiling. "I'd like that. Thanks Sam."

A beam splits his face. "Excellent. And without further ado, I shall return to my office and work on the toast. Again. Once more. Still."

I find myself laughing as he leaves, still uttering synonyms which indicate the long hours he's spent working on the toast already. If I know Sam, he'll be complaining like that for most of the day, and I thank my lucky stars that I heard him now, in the morning, when it's at least semi-good-natured. Later on today, he's bound to get slightly snippier, especially if Toby keeps on at him about the toast. I'll admit, although never to the other assistants, in case they get the wrong idea, that I'm very fond of Sam, in no small part because he reminds me of my brothers. He's got that little boy vulnerability that I see in Dom every Christmas when he inveigles me into helping him buy his wife's Christmas present, and he's got this enthusiasm and general irrepressibility that reminds me so much of Michael and Neil. And then he can turn around, like he did just now, and be so nice and kind, and it's like being in the same room with Rick. Sometimes, like back in the beginning, it made me feel homesick, made me miss them all the more, made me wonder what I was doing here. Now, I just find it comforting.

My amusement fades somewhat when I turn back to Toby. He's still fingering his beard, which means he's deep in thought, and he's looking up at me. "Toby?" I ask. "You need anything?"

"Huh?" He shakes himself back to reality. "No…no, it's fine." His fingers tap the folder. "Thanks for this."

"No problem."

"You don't have to go tonight you know," he tells me. "If you'd rather not, if you don't feel up to it…" What he's not saying comes across loud and clear to me, and I smile at him in appreciation.

"I think I'd like to," I tell him. "It's better than sitting at home, feeling sorry for myself."

He nods. "So…you're ok?"

I think about that for a moment. And then I find that I am. "Yeah," I tell him.

"OK. If you need anything, you know where I am."

"Yeah."

I close the door behind me, smiling to myself, wondering at how things can change in a year. This time last year, I was terrified of Toby. When I saw him coming, I was always torn between the urge to either run in the opposite direction or hide under the nearest desk. But then he found me in the garden, and I told him my life story, and saw a whole different side to him. And while I've spent parts of the last year wanting to run and hide from him still, I've also seen flashes of his softer side, as recently as last month. He was up to his neck in trouble after the financial disclosures, and he still noticed that I was falling apart a little, and asked me what was wrong. I get the impression that he's looking out for me all the time, even when I don't notice it, just like he did now.

I move across to my desk, picking up the papers there, and Bonnie rolls her eyes when she sees me. "Don't tell me it was on his desk?"

"Under a pile of paper that he dumped there," I confirm.

"Men. Hey, did Sam tell you about tonight?"

"Yep."

"And you're coming right? Because you've missed the last couple of nights out." Bonnie frowns at me as she speaks, and Cathy, hearing the subject of conversation, comes over to us.

"Of course she's coming." She gives me the look that never fails to have Sam quailing in his seat. "We deserve a party after the year we've had."

That comment starts a quasi-competition between them as they compete to see who can dredge up the biggest horror story about the past year, and I smile as I listen to them. It's been a long time since I had a large group of girlfriends with whom I could commiserate about the events in my life, not since college I think. Everyone moved away after college, moved on to our own lives, our own careers, and I never missed the close companionship because I had Alan. Which is not to say that I didn't have friends, because I did, but he was the one that I relied on, the one I told everything to. And once he was gone, I was lost. Meeting the other volunteers on the campaign staff, becoming friends with them, really bonding with them once we all became Senior Assistants, I discovered new friendships, and I can honestly say that after a year of working with these women, I know them as well as I know any of the girls that I spent four years with in college. Bonnie, Cathy, Carol, Donna and Margaret - I know it's a cliché, but they're more like my sisters than my friends. Of course, since we're all single, we all tend to hang out together after work, gossiping and bitching about our lives and our dates, not that I have much to contribute to those conversations.

Even though it's been two years since Alan died, dating is still something that's beyond me, and if the girls have noticed that, then they haven't said anything to me about it. Bonnie talked me into a blind date with her and her boyfriend once, and I went, but it was a disaster. I put up a good enough front during the date, but I made it clear that there was no spark there, that I wouldn't be seeing him again. Then I went home and cried for hours, because even though I know it sounds silly, I still felt like I was cheating on Alan. I think Bonnie might suspect, because of that, that there's more to it than meets the eye, but she hasn't asked, and I'm not telling. I haven't told anyone here about Alan, except for Toby and Mrs Landingham. When I began volunteering here, I didn't talk about him. Not that I didn't want to, I physically couldn't. And once I'd been here for a while, got to know people, I didn't see how I could just drop it into the conversation. Besides, I'd seen so much of the look that people give me when they hear - that sympathetic look in their eyes, the aghast expression on their faces when they hear that I was a widow at twenty-five, and I didn't want to see it any more. I was finally at a place where people were seeing Ginger the person, not Ginger the grieving widow. And I think now, although I didn't know it at the time, that I was finally getting to a place where I could see me as Ginger the person, rather than part of GingerandAlan, the perfect couple. Losing him once was so painful - I thought I'd never get through it. I didn't want to introduce him to these people, only to have to lose him all over again. I'd be lying if I said that it was easy, keeping it from people, but after a while, it became second nature to me. And I honestly have no idea how I'm going to tell everyone here, or even if I ever will.

But for now, I'm going to sit down here at my computer, and listen to Bonnie and Cathy talking, joining in with my own memories of the year just past. And no matter what they say, no matter about low polling numbers, or Toby on the warpath or Sam and his perfectionism, or the long hours that we've been having to work, for me, this year hasn't been all bad.

In fact, I'd go so far to say that it's been quite good.

Which is why I'm smiling now, looking around me at the people milling about, going from one meeting to the next, enjoying their jobs, loving what they do. And I realise once again that I'm one of those people too. So I'll go out with them tonight and celebrate the anniversary. But not the same one that they're celebrating, not the anniversary of President Bartlet being elected. My own anniversary. The anniversary of the first night of the rest of my life.


End file.
